


lions in her heart (fire in her soul)

by skitzofreak



Series: stardust in your spine [2]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Found Family, Jyn fights, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Non graphic violence, Not Canon Compliant, POV Multiple, Rated for swearing, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, based on a tumblr prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-08 14:08:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11648136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skitzofreak/pseuds/skitzofreak
Summary: Sometimes you just have to fight a bitch.Or: Three times Jyn fought for her team and one time she didn't have to.





	1. The Pilot

It takes Jyn exactly three days after officially joining the Alliance to get in her first brawl, and honestly, she’s not sure why anyone is surprised.

“It’s just standard pecking order bantha-shit,” she defends herself to Cassian, crossing her arms and glaring. At her feet, the largest of the three idiots flops from his face to his side, clutching his swelling nose and groaning dramatically. Jyn rolls her eyes. “Every new Partisan tried it. They wanted to test me.” She prods the big one with her steel-toed boot indifferently. “I passed.”

Bodhi makes a small coughing sound from a few feet away, where he is distractedly picking at his fraying gloves. “Actually, they were, uh, talking to me. You know, before you came up. Asking me about, uh, you know, why I defected. Why I,” he pauses, stares at his hands for a moment, then finishes quietly, “why it took me so long to leave.”

Cassian’s eyes flick from Bodhi’s twitchy fingers to the tense hunch of his shoulders, and then settle again on Jyn. “Oh?”

Jyn meets his carefully neutral face with her own flat stare. “Like I said. They wanted to see how far they could push me. Now they know.”

“Sir,” the devaronian corporal wheezes from where he kneels, clutching at his left horn, which appears to be newly fractured. His red-tinted skin is even brighter than usual, from exertion and probably pain. “That crazy _shutta_ just came outta nowhere –“

The temperature in the corridor suddenly seems to drop by several degrees as Cassian’s face abruptly goes completely blank. The devaronian, sensitive to moods as his people tend to be, snaps his mouth shut with an audible _click_.

“Harassing a fellow member of the Alliance is a serious offense, Corporal Zaire” Captain Andor’s voice is level, professional, and could snap-freeze water on Tatooine. “If we cannot respect one another, then we cannot fight the Empire, and we will all suffer.” There is just the slightest emphasis on the last word, a quiet warning. He does not move, does not change his expression at all, but he looks down at the devaronian for a long moment, and the silence stretches until it’s almost unbearable.

Finally, in that same frozen tone, “Do you understand?”

The corporal nods briefly, jaw still clamped shut. The big human rolling at Jyn’s feet has stopped groaning, in fact appears to have stopped breathing all together. The third idiot is also silent, but in fairness that’s probably because he’s out cold against the far wall.

“Dismissed,” the captain says mildly.

The two idiots who are still conscious gather up their limp buddy and scramble off down the hallway behind Jyn, giving her a wide berth. She doesn’t glare at them as they go. There’s no need; the hierarchy has been firmly established.  Once they move along, she steps up to Cassian and tilts her chin up at him. “I can handle that shit,” she tells him bluntly.

The blank expression relaxes into something less frighteningly empty and more calmly neutral. “I know.” His lip quirks a little into a rueful sort of half smile. “But you shouldn’t have to.”

Bodhi lets out a long sigh. “That was my fault, sorry. I should have, should have just told them to, uh, shove off and left.”

"Stop," Jyn says sharply, at the same time that Cassian places a warm hand on Bodhi's shoulder.

"You are not to blame for someone else's prejudice," Cassian tells him firmly.

"And anyway, they were just looking for a fight," Jyn shrugs. "And I'm always good for that."


	2. The Droid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> K2SO updates his personnel profiles.

“I am not due for maintenance,” K2SO loads as much stiff disapproval into his voicebox as possible. “And if it were necessary, I am qualified to perform repairs myself. It is not,” he adds after a beat. “Necessary.” Internally, he calculates a seventy-three percent chance that the mechanic will attempt to force maintenance protocols whether he agrees or not. His self-preservation subroutine immediately moves “exit the premises” to the top of his short-term priority action list.

“Look, droid,” the mechanic taps her greasy fingers irritably on her datapad and rolls her eyes. “Logs say you haven’t been through standard maintenance rotation in three months. Protocol is for every month, so get over here and let’s get it done.”

“Captain Andor performs all my maintenance checks and repairs,” K2SO turns to leave the droid bay. The main entrance is twelve meters away. Side entrance, six meters, but three junior mechanics are in the most efficient pathway to it. Harming Alliance personnel will result in a black mark against Cassian. The main entrance is the optimal path for egress. “If protocol demanded all logs be kept in the droid bay, which it does not,” he tells the mechanic as he strides for the door, “he will provide them.”

“Captain Andor isn’t _here_ , is he? Hey, hold it, bolt bucket, this wasn’t a suggestion.”

K2SO’s audio processors pick up on the hum of an automatic restraining bolt immediately, but the small self-propelled restrainers are designed to move faster than a droid, even an Imperial security droid, _especially_ an Imperial security droid, can react.

He has exactly 0.7 seconds until impact. That is just long enough to calculate the probable length of time he will be incapacitated - but instead, impractically, he calculates the probability that his personality or memory routines will be altered by protocol-oriented mechanics. Strangers. The numbers are extremely displeasing.

The restraining bolt flies through the air, aimed for the center of K2SO’s chassis – and smacks loudly into a gloved palm.

K2SO is still seven and a half meters from the main entrance to the droid bay. Jyn Erso has crossed that distance 1.138 seconds faster than he would have calculated based on his previous observations of her.  He updates her profile accordingly.

Jyn Erso does not turn and look at him, he notes with approval. She keeps her eyes on the threat. Her fist tightens around the retraining bolt, and with a satisfying crack, it snaps in half between her fingers.

“Hey,” the mechanic barks. “That’s not yours.”

“Hey,” Jyn Erso responds in a voice that organics typically consider toneless. “Fuck you.”

“What’s your problem?” the mechanic looks at Jyn Erso’s rank badge and lowers her clipboard, in order to more prominently display her own Ensign rank badge. “ _Sergeant_.”

For exactly 5.24 seconds, Jyn Erso does not respond to the mechanic. Two standard months ago, K2SO would have assessed that she was processing the query in an exceptionally slow manner, possibly due to cranial damage from years of physical violence. Experience, however, informs him that Jyn Erso deliberately extends her silences before responding to any conversational prompt from a fellow sentient when she does not like either the prompt or the sentient. He has also noted that for the duration of those silences, she does not blink. Organics tend to find that behavior intimidating, which often places Jyn Erso in a more dominant position within the interaction. K2SO considers this a reasonable and clever stratagem.

In this particular scenario, it works. The mechanic shifts her weight uncomfortably, displaying several micro-expressions that indicate unease.

“He doesn’t need maintenance,” Jyn Erso explains in an uncompromising tone. “And he works in Intelligence. Intel droids have special protocols that supersede standard operating procedure. Try to bolt him again, and you’ll explain it to General Draven.” She tilts her chin, a motion that never fails to provoke opponents to anger and Cassian to some strange emotion that K2SO has not properly catalogued yet. “And then you’ll explain it to me,” she adds, which is entirely nonsensical. A sergeant does not outrank a general, and logically is not as much of a threat to an Ensign.

The Ensign flinches anyway. Organics are not logical creatures, he reminds himself. It makes them extremely frustrating, and sometimes fascinating.

“Fine, then get him out of my bay,” she snarls, directing her attention to her clipboard. “I have things to do.”

Jyn Erso turns on her heel and marches out of the droid bay. She does not tell K2SO to follow her, so he does. In the hallway outside of the bay, she stops and assesses him, apparently searching for signs of damage. He understands; the mechanics in that bay were clearly of inferior intelligence and could well have incapacitated a valuable asset to the Alliance as himself. He takes the opportunity to initiate a facial scan on Jyn Erso for analysis. Minor tension in the mandible, but otherwise no signs of distress. K2SO is aware that Jyn Erso has just prevented an extremely tedious and potentially unpleasant episode for him. He is also aware that organics often expect verbalized expressions of gratitude and promises of reciprocity.

“You have been studying the regulations for Rebel Intelligence personnel,” he says. “Although you are mistaken if you think the head of Intelligence manages minor disciplinary action for non-Intelligence officers.”

Jyn Erso nods. “Cassian’s been gone three days,” she replies, “and no one is willing to spar with me in the training center.”

K2SO considers. “I am a security droid, designed to locate and apprehend enemy units,” he announces. “I am not designed for sparring, but I will assist you in improving your survival, evasion, resistance, and escape procedures.”

Jyn Erso raises both of her eyebrows in an expression that closely resembles one that Cassian uses when he is surprised and amused. “You want to chase me around the base and then hold me prisoner?”

“Intelligence operatives do not actively engage in front line combat unless all other options are impractical,” K2SO tells her severely. “Practice of your SERE skills will lower the probability that you will find yourself in physical confrontation on future missions.”

“You,” Jyn Erso’s mandible tightens again, and this time her silence does seem to be a product of slow processing capacity. K2SO adds “mental stimulation exercises” to a newly created long-term priority list that he then attaches to his internal profile of Jyn Erso. He places it just below “provide sufficiently threatening presence to deter minor threats to Jyn Erso’s health” and just above “increase chances of smooth integration into Cassian/K2SO operational field unit.”

“I haven’t agreed to work Intelligence yet,” she says at last. K2SO detects a subvocal disharmony that indicates distress and uncertainty. It is ridiculous.

“That is ridiculous,” he tells her peevishly. “You are a thief, a liar, and a slicer. Those talents are best suited for covert work. Your skills with violent physical conflict are useful in skirmishes or small-unit confrontations, but not appropriate for large-unit battlefield tactics. An intelligence operative is the only logical course for you. I think so, and Cassian does too.”

Jyn Erso tilts her chin at K2SO. “Okay,” she says. “I get a ten minute start.”

“You have five minutes. Be warned, I am equipped with heat sensors, superior audio processors, and I have twelve standard hours left of internal power before I will require a recharge.”

“Cassian’s supposed to be back in four hours. You have until then to catch me, and then we’re going to meet him.”

“An acceptable caveat,” K2SO agrees, pleased. “Begin running, Jyn Erso.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You will never convince me that K2SO wouldn't have been a Jyn Erso stan after Scarif; they just have way too much in common in the movie (they don't stay on the ship, they don't follow orders all that well at all, they kick serious arse, they love Cassian, they always want to be armed, they give exactly zero shits about anyone's opinion). I'm calling it: Vitriolic Best Buds Forever.


	3. The Guardians

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baze resists the urge to roll his eyes.
> 
> OR: Everybody is Kung Fu Fighting!

“When the enemy is stronger than you,” Chirrut says kindly, “direct resistance to his strength is often foolish. Better to adjust, and evade.” He settles on his heels, staff propped against his shoulder, satisfied smile plastered across his face. Across the mat from him, a panting young man with fluffy blond hair hunches with his hands on his knees. Various curious rebels gather in a semi-circle on one side of the mat. Baze sits on a crate on the other side, repeating blaster spread out around him in pieces as he cleans it. “Thus,” continues Chirrut, insufferably cheerful, “will you gain victory.”

Baze resists the urge to roll his eyes and runs a fine-woven cloth through the secondary barrel.

“But I _have_ to strike at you sooner or later, Master Imwe,” Luke Skywalker exclaims, voice just shy of a whine. “I mean, we’ve been dancing around forever and neither of us is _winning_.”

Three minutes, Baze thinks. If that’s all the patience the pup has, he’s not going to get very far.

And strikes or no strikes, Chirrut is definitely winning.

“Patient is not the same as passive,” Chirrut tells the pup, tapping his staff once against the mat in slow emphasis. “On the contrary, it is concentrated strength.”

The onlookers murmur among themselves like this is Ultimate Wisdom. “I wanna get that on a tattoo,” Baze catches one perky-looking Twi’lek girl whispering loudly to her friend.  This time he does roll his eyes, and snaps the feed block back into the tangent rear sight with a decisive click. He hopes Chirrut didn’t hear that. 

Chirrut’s grin widens a little; he definitely heard that.

The pup’s face wars between respect and exasperation. Baze sympathizes, a little. “Forgive me, Master, but what does dodging have to do with strength?”

“True strength is not in our muscles, but our souls,” he replies, setting off another round of admiring whispers, but this time he doesn’t seem to notice. “Perhaps there is one who can help you understand,” Chirrut’s voice stays pleasant, but he’s suddenly talking much louder, and Baze looks up to scan the hangar where they are holding this impromptu lesson. Ah, there. It seems Captain Andor has returned from wherever the Alliance has sent him these last few days. But Chirrut’s head is angled slightly to the Captain’s left, at the woman standing almost - but not quite - pressed against his arm. Baze nods at Jyn, who nods back but keeps her suspicious eyes on Chirrut.

 _Smart move, little sister_ , Baze thinks, uncapping the industrial grade blaster oil and reaching for the repeater’s sealed enviro-jacketing. _He’s definitely up to something_.

Chirrut holds out an elegant hand, palm up. Pale scars mar his slender wrist, all that is visible of the vicious red wounds that shredded his right side on Scarif. Under his robes, some of those scars are still an angry pink, despite bacta and bandages and Baze’s best salves. But the ones on his wrist, at least, are almost gone. Baze glares at them anyway, then turns pointedly back to his blaster.

 “Would you join me, Sergeant?”

Jyn and the Captain exchange what the curious rebel onlookers probably think is a neutral look, and then Jyn shrugs one shoulder and strides out onto the mat. Her partner walks in a more measured pace around the mat to sit on a crate near Baze, leaning forward to prop his elbows on his knees. He is careful to avoid disturbing any of Baze’s gear, which earns him a grunt of greeting. He nods, the corner of his mouth lifting briefly, then turns to watch Jyn on the mat. Baze eyes him for a moment, noting the stiff way he’s holding his shoulders and the slight grimace as he settles. Back’s still hurting, looks like. Stubborn fool is probably overworking himself, despite the injuries. Idly, Baze wonders if Jyn gave him any hell for going on an assignment during what is technically his recovery period.

On the mat, the Skywalker pup holds his wooden sword out to Jyn eagerly, blushing a little as she looks at it. Baze isn’t sure if it’s hero worship or just that the kid clearly has a _type_ , and figures it’s probably a mix of both. Jyn, for her part, glances at the ‘lightsaber’ but holds up a palm dismissively.

“The sergeant already knows that everything is a weapon when necessary,” Chirrut informs the crowd. “Including her own body. For this demonstration, that is all she will need.”

Jyn stalks across the mat towards Skywalker, aggressively (though not nastily) stepping into his space. The pup shuffles off the mat out of her way, and Jyn promptly turns her back on him to stare at Chirrut. “Rules?” She asks calmly, as if she does this sort of thing all the time.

“Strikes only, please,” Chirrut answers, and Baze almost smirks at the note of pride in his voice. If Jyn had been his student back at the Temple, Baze thinks idly, Chirrut would have bragged about her insufferably. “No holds or swings. Aim to incapacitate, not kill.”

Jyn nods. Baze fits the charge disperser back onto the primary barrel and raises an eyebrow at her, because he can already see the calculation behind her eyes. He doubts that she’s forgotten Chirrut’s recent injuries, but he’s not sure she even knows _how_ to pull her punches.

“Now, as you will see,” Chirrut begins, and Jyn is already across the mat and swinging for his chest with her right fist. As nimble as a springtime breeze, Chirrut steps in towards Jyn’s chest, grabs her outstretched right wrist with one hand, jams the low end of his staff between her ankles, and throws her over his hip. Jyn flies through the air, but manages to roll with it and land cleanly on her back, free arm smacking out to disperse the force of her momentum painlessly. She grunts a little, but otherwise looks unsurprised to find herself flat on the floor.

“An opponent’s strength is often their weakness,” Chirrut finishes calmly, stepping back easily into his original position. He reaches out his hand again, palm up, and gestures with his fingertips for her to try again. Jyn pulls her legs up, rolling her weight almost entirely onto her upper back, then in one smooth movement kicks up to a standing position. The crowd makes various sounds of appreciation, and it’s not just Skywalker giving her that wide-eyed blushing stare now. Baze glances aside, at the intent look on the Captain’s face, and almost feels vaguely sorry for the pups.

Jyn crosses the mat to her start position, turns, and without pausing charges across again, this time aiming her left fist at Chirrut’s gut. When he steps to the right to avoid it, she turns almost with him, and throws an elbow at his now exposed shoulder. Baze shakes his head, because it was a good move but, well, Chirrut has already lifted his staff to catch the blow at an angle, forcing her arm to slide downwards and her momentum to spin off center. A second later, she’s flat on her back again, and looking slightly less composed about.

“To match an enemy blow for blow,” Chirrut calls out, and from the floor Jyn lashes out at his ankle with her feet. He leaps off the mat just high enough for the double blow to pass under his soles, and lands with his feet braced on either side of her knees. “Would in some cases,” Chirrut swings his staff neatly to redirect the knee that Jyn attempts to throw into his shin upwards, towards her own chest where she can’t get leverage. “Be a fool’s errand.”

Jyn rolls to the side, using her momentum to swing up into a half-crouch and throw a fist at Chirrut’s right hip. “Especially when the opponent,” Chirrut spins gracefully on his left foot, which simultaneously moves his hip out of Jyn’s range and swings him around to stand behind her back. “Is considerably stronger than you,” he finishes, gliding lightly away as she spins on her knee to follow him, one fist aimed at his gut, the other slamming downwards in a hammer blow toward at his feet. _Well done, little sister_ , Baze thinks, _pin him down._

“However,” Chirrut lectures merrily, spinning into another half turn to avoid both blows and whirling his staff to a more defensive position as she surges to her feet after him. “Sometimes the opponent’s strike,” he steps aside to avoid a painful kick aimed at his side, “can be turned,” he slides in towards Jyn and expertly thrusts his staff into the back of her bent knee, forcing her leg to rise even higher so that she has to rock backwards on her other foot, “against them.” And with a flick of his wrist, Jyn loses her balance completely. She’s no eager young pup, though, so instead of falling into a flailing heap of limbs, she throws herself backwards and rolls across her shoulders to land in a low crouch a safe distance away, hands already raised and eyes wary.

“Good,” Baze says out loud, because proficient form deserves recognition and Chirrut is focused on the pups. Beside him, the Captain shifts his weight slightly. He’s not yet used to seeing his partner take a hit. Baze considers telling him that it gets easier, but he’s never been inclined to tell pleasant lies before and sees no reason to start now.  

On the mat, Chirrut’s smile has turned a touch rueful. Clearly, he’d meant for Jyn to land hard, thus making his point about winning a fight with an opponent’s own strikes. From the slight scowl on her own face, Jyn is well aware that she was supposed to take the fall as an illustration for the pup. Baze figures she might even have been trying to do it, but a lifetime of refusing to fall down and accept defeat is not so easily overcome. There has likely never been a time in Jyn Erso’s life that she has willingly done either of those things, Baze thinks, and he frowns at Chirrut a little reprovingly as he snaps the final cover latch onto his repeater.

Chirrut chuckles quietly. “Of course, one must always consider the opponent in any strategy,” he says softly, an apology and acknowledgement of sorts. Jyn ducks her head a little, scowl relaxing into her normal watchful expression.

Behind her, Luke Skywalker suddenly bursts out, “that was amazing!” The crowd is also murmuring again, and Baze sees at least two credit chips exchange hands. Chirrut holds out a hand to Jyn, who takes it even as she jumps up to her feet easily. Chirrut pats her knuckles with his free hand affectionately, and she squeezes a little with her own fingers. Deftly, she darts around the pup as he rushes up, letting Chirrut smoothly step in to intercept as Jyn crosses towards Baze and the Captain. She drops a hand lightly on Baze’s shoulder, and he grunts at her before she can pass entirely by. “Next time,” he mutters, “Just kick his ass, rules be damned.”

Jyn flashes him a quick grin, while on the mat, Chirrut clears his throat pointedly over the excited chatter of the pup. Baze looks down swiftly to hide his own smirk in his beard.

The Captain pulls himself to his feet with care, and Baze can’t see Jyn’s expression at the clearly painful movement but feels her hand tense on his shoulder.  He reaches up and gives it a quick pat of his own, because he still won’t tell them that it gets easier, but he can empathize, at least.

The Captain speaks a little too quickly, clearly trying to distract from the tight lines around his mouth. “Will we see you at evening meal?”

Baze shrugs. “If I can drag him away,” he jerks his head at the mat, where Chirrut is now tapping his staff sharply against Skywalker’s legs to correct his stance.

They leave without another word, Jyn striding like she’s off to fight the world and Cassian stalking softly beside her. Baze slings his reassembled repeater back into his holster. On the mat, Chirrut stands lightly next to Skywalker in a grappling stance. Baze snorts; that particular stance is easy, almost comfortable, for exactly thirty seconds, and then it feels like desert blood-ants are gnawing on your thighs. Already, the pup’s face is showing strain, while Chirrut looks as serene as a moon-maiden. Baze figures this is probably Chirrut’s self-inflicted penance for forcing Jyn to lose a fight against her nature; when they were novices, their master used to make them stand that way for an hour every time they (Chirrut) got in trouble.

Baze seriously doubts the pup will last five minutes, let alone an hour, but Chirrut will, and afterwards he’ll smile and pretend he barely felt it while Baze rubs salve into his aching muscles.

Baze settles back to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I watched roughly two hours of judo videos on youtube to write what's essentially a 2000 word drabble, and I barely used any of it. I am officially ridiculous. Also, I like to think that Chirrut is literally the only person alive that Jyn would allow to throw her around in a fight (or for whom she would ever hold back). Maybe Baze, except he would never ask.
> 
> Also, Chirrut's Wise Remarks about patience being a strength and true strength being in the soul rather than the muscles are both paraphrases of Bruce Lee quotes, because it was just too perfect.


	4. The Spy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This, Jyn thinks a little desperately, is why she doesn’t pray.
> 
> OR: What partners are for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I reference a few weapons/armors in here:  
> 1\. [A manriki](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chain_weapon) is basically a chain that you use like a whip. For this story, imagine it has modified blades on either end.  
> 2\. [A gorget](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gorget) is a piece of armor that wraps around the neck and is typically designed to prevent an unexpected throat-slitting (or, really, any throat slitting) but can also be heavily armored and padded against strikes.  
> 3\. [Here's an okapi.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Okapi_\(knife\)) It is not particularly known for being a good throwing blade, but it is often associated with criminals, which I felt translated well for an extremist turned thief turned spy.

Jyn makes it exactly five steps into the cantina when she sees him. He’s standing just to the side of the door, arms crossed casually as he leans against the stained wall. He’s shaved his hair down to a dark stubble since she saw him last, and there’s a jagged new scar across his thin lips, but the familiar leer is still plastered across his broad features, and that damn manriki he so loves still hangs at his dusty belt.

Jyn stops dead, because he’s already seen her and there’s no place to hide.

“Tanith,” he grunts, warping the scar across his mouth as he starts to grin, an ugly expression.

“Eskol,” she replies evenly.

And then she runs.

He hadn’t been waiting for her, she’s sure at least of that. If he had, she’d have found that damn chain wrapping around her neck before she ever clapped eyes on the man himself. It's just shitty luck, running into him while wrapping up her latest operation. Her sudden appearance must have surprised him as much as it surprised her. Still, he almost gets her, just inside the cantina door. His armored hands are fast, but Jyn is just a touch faster, and she wrenches her shoulder down and away from his grasping fingers and makes it out into the fading sunlight.

Her blaster is a piece of crap, a stripped down junker just as liable to explode in her hands as fire at the enemy. Jyn would never bother with it these days (her partner would throw a fit if she tried) but it’s just the sort of weapon Dari Yidroth, the struggling and slightly gullible smuggler, uses. Of course, the Dari identity is already gone, dropped like a hot sweetcake the second Jyn found herself face to face with Tanith Ponta’s worst enemy. Eskol is the reason she dropped the Tanith identity, too, and at the time she sent a half-hearted prayer out to the universe that she’d dropped Eskol with it. The universe had clearly not been listening.

This, Jyn thinks a little desperately, is why she doesn’t pray.

It’s not just that he’s fast, and a bloody good fighter, or even that he has years of experience as a bounty hunter in the nastier parts of the Outer Rim. Jyn’s no slouch at running or fighting, and she even learned a useful thing or two about Eskol’s weaknesses back when she was…well, not his partner, only one person has ever earned that title (only one ever will, she swears). Back when they worked some jobs together, that’s when she’d seen the way Eskol sometimes favors his left knee and uses a special ointment on his eyes because they get infections easily. No, speed and power and experience aren’t enough to make him a true threat.

It’s that kriffing manriki, Jyn thinks as she bolts wildly through the narrow streets behind the cantina, shoving through the evening crowds of the Nar Shaddaa port.  Bad enough he’s skilled at looping it around the limbs or neck of any being he targets at mid-range, but the thing also has –

She hears the hiss and an unpleasant droning sound behind her even as she thinks it, like the bastard read her mind. She risks a quick glance back and yes, there it is, the faint glow of orange plasma dripping along the edges of the blades embedded on each end of the chain. Jyn packed light for this operation, so she doesn’t have a fucking thing on her that can withstand those glowing edges, or protect her from the splatter of plasma if they fly too close to her skin.

Shit.

She throws herself sideways in a hairpin turn through a small shop full of various trinkets. Loud startled cries and furious curses mingle with the crash of the tables that she overturns in her wake, leaving a swath of chaos behind her. Eskol slows down just long enough to grab the protesting shopkeeper by the throat and fling him ruthless to the ground. It’s enough, though, to buy Jyn another few meters of distance as she sprints through the back door of the shop and down the almost empty alley.

She has an okapi blade in a sheath on her left forearm, small and sharp enough for a balanced throw. If she could get it in his eye, or his throat, that would be enough to save her. Except, no, Eskol has a gorget, doesn’t he? The okapi will just bounce off his throat. Eye, then, if she’s fast enough. Trouble is, she’s not sure she _is_ fast enough, and then she’ll be down one weapon. Jyn skids slightly on the rough gravel as she takes another random, sharp turn, diving out of her alley and into another crowd. Still, blocking a blade aimed for his face might distract Eskol enough to let her get close to him. The manriki is still deadly at close-range, the plasma even more so, but at least she had a chance of getting a hit in. _Left knee_ , she reminds herself, _aim for the left knee first._

She feels more than hears the whistle of the blade cracking through the air near her head, and instinctively Jyn throws herself to her knees, rolls across her hip and diagonally across her back until she makes a complete turn and finds herself back up on her feet in a crouch. Something bites into her back and she feels a small scream rip out of her mouth before she can choke it back. The blades? No - an orange blur smashes into the wall just past where her head had been a second ago, and the dark metal links of the chain jingle almost cheerfully as they snap taut. But the pain - _shavit_ , the plasma must have dripped on her as it flew by. Jyn ducks under the chain and scrambles for the nearest alley entrance before Eskol can yank the blade out and send it flying at her again.

 _Two hours_ , she thinks, her mouth dry and her chest tightening with animal fear and desperation. She was supposed to wait in that cantina for two hours before her extraction, which means that she is completely, totally alone with a blood-thirsty bounty hunter on her trail and only close-range weapons at her disposal.  She has to ditch Eskol or kill him, because she’ll never manage to evade him for two karking hours. She already feels her lungs straining from the desperate chase, her ankle aches from skidding on gravel, and a savage line of unforgiving fire scorches down her left shoulder and her back.

 _Knife to eye, then aim for the left knee_ , she reminds herself, and swerves one last time to get out of his line of sight. As she rounds the corner, she flicks the blade out of her sleeve with one hand and reaches for the truncheon hooked onto her right thigh with the other. Her chest heaves, her blood is roaring in her ears, her back is on fucking _fire_ , and she feels something suspiciously like grief as she realizes in a flash that if she dies back here _Cassian will never know_ -

Eskol barrels around the corner with one hand raised, the orange plasma hissing as it splashes on the road beneath them. Jyn tenses her wrist, aiming at his face –

She doesn’t hear the muted whine of the blaster bolt until she sees it, a brief flash of green light that slices through the air and drills into Eskol’s forehead. The bounty hunter’s cruel eyes, focused on Jyn, go blank instantly, though the triumphant grin stays fixed on his face in a terrifying rictus. Without a sound, he falls forward and crashes into the gravel by Jyn’s feet. She barely has enough presence of mind to jump away from the clattering orange blades and sputtering plasma. The manriki hisses one last time, a furious wounded serpent, and then goes dark and still.

Jyn whirls around.

She sees nothing, but there’s no time to stop and look. She gulps in deep breaths and tries to slow her racing heart, stumbling away from Eskol’s cooling corpse and tugging at her smoldering shirt. Now that the immediate threat is neutralized, she has to deal with the burning pain in her back. Her shirt is definitely smoking, and she rips at the cloth a little frantically.  The plasma trickles further down her back, tracing a line of fire across her shoulder blade towards her spine. Shit, if she doesn’t get that off it might start eating into the muscle, hardening into painful shards of glass embedded in the open wound.

Someone drops from nearby fire escape into the alley. Jyn twists to look at him and immediately regrets it, the motion tugging at the burned skin on her back. Jyn bites down on the whimper fighting its way out of her throat, but can’t quite manage it. The sound comes out as a strangled sob, half pain and half fury.

He jerks at the sound as if she’s hit him, and then her partner (her partner, the only one she’s ever had, and she suddenly _needs_ to tell him so, but she can’t get her voice working, it’s burning in her lungs, burning like her skin) her _partner_ lunges across the alley to grab her arm, turns her away from him to see her back.

“Plasma,” she manages to wheeze, and he lets out a vicious curse that in another situation would have made her grin with approval. As it is, she barely hears the words, but his voice cuts through some of the pain and calms her a little. His hands are steady as he helps her tear off her shirt and uses the sleeves to swipe at the trickle of plasma still clinging to her skin. The cloth smears the orange gunk and makes her hiss, but there’s nothing to do but bear it so she clenches her teeth and braces herself against the alley wall.  He flicks open the small metal latches of her combat bra in one swift motion and shoves the heavy material over her burned shoulder, and though he tries not to scrape it over the rising blisters, he doesn’t quite manage. Jyn presses her forehead against her arms on the wall and forces herself to breathe.

He’s speaking to her again, in his native tongue now, but his voice is low and soothing, and Jyn tears her mind away from her back and focuses on picking out what few words she knows. _Fine_ is easy, so is _you_ and _safe_ and of course _fucking son of a disease-ridden mynock_ , but the phrase he repeats over and over is _I am here_.

Under the steady murmur of his voice she hears him rifle through his bag, hears the faint pop of a seal breaking. And then, _I am here, Jyn_ , and the cool press of bacta gel sliding over her seared skin. He works his fingers gently down her shoulder and back, coating the long, narrow burn twice over. When he’s finished, he takes a deep breath and rests his bacta-sticky fingers against her bare shoulders. Jyn swallows, forces her shoulders to relax, lets out a shuddering breath, and opens her eyes.

“Cass-,” she tries to say, has to stop and clear her throat, and in a rough but steady voice tries again. “ _Cassian_.”

“It’s okay, Jyn,” he answers evenly, though his hands on her shoulders shake, just barely. “You’ll be okay.”

Jyn nods slightly, testing the pull of skin across her back, but already the bacta is working its way in. The plasma hadn’t burned too deep in, it seems, superficial damage that will probably heal within a day or two despite the terrible pain it had put her through. Jyn pushes off the wall and turns to face Cassian, crossing her arms to keep the loose material of her bra in place and afford her at least some small dignity. She looks up into his face just in time to see the last shutter close as he forces whatever he was feeling away behind a calm, slightly bored mask. “Minor damage,” he tells her in the same even tone, though Jyn notices that he hasn’t actually dropped his hands when she turned, just raised them slightly so they hover over her shoulders.

It was the scream, she thinks a little tiredly, as the adrenaline wears off and the exhaustion sets in. She should have tried harder to stop herself from screaming. That sound had scared him, and Cassian really only has one reaction to fear. He’ll spend the rest of the day acting like this was just another retrieval mission. And then he’ll spend the night hunched over in the cockpit, taking some small machine apart and refusing to sleep.    

Jyn draws in a steadying breath, steps forward, and presses her face against his chest. “Don’t,” she says hoarsely. She wants to clarify - _don’t make that face, don’t hide from me, don’t pretend like nothing’s wrong_ – but he seems to understand anyway because his hands drop back to her shoulders, and though he grips tightly she can definitely feel the tremor in them now.

“I’m sorry,” he starts, but she shakes her head hard against his chest.

“You came back early,” she cuts him off. “How did you know?”

He shifts his weight a little, uneasily. “Kay commed me. Said I had a message from Chirrut.”

Jyn can’t name the feeling that floods into her belly suddenly, but she smiles a little against his shirt. “He told you that I was in trouble?”

“He told me that the best laid plans often go awry,” Cassian doesn’t snort, though there’s a hint of it in his voice. “But that is what partners are for.”

Partners, Jyn thinks. She presses a hand to Cassian’s chest – his heart beating just a little faster than normal, some distant part of her mind notes – and pushes back slightly to look up at his face again. He’s dropped the mask, good, but now he looks almost as tired as she feels, and fear still strains the lines around his mouth. “I never had a partner,” she tells him quietly. “Before you.”

She’s not sure he’ll understand, but his eyes widen briefly, then close. Cassian leans down and rests his forehead against hers, and whispers, “Neither have I,” and she knows that he understands perfectly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chirruts Wise Words(TM) are a paraphrase of Scottish poet Robert Burns' succinctly named poem: "To a Mouse, on Turning Her Up in Her Nest With the Plough, November, 1785" (["The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men / Gang aft agley"](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/To_a_Mouse) because it sounds like something Chirrut would say, probably while laughing and elbowing Baze in the ribs.)

**Author's Note:**

> All of these are inspired by [this](http://bisexualsweeney.tumblr.com/post/161437740542/jyn-erso-is-the-little-spoon-half-asleep-i) tumblr prompt. Thanks, [NewLeeland!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NewLeeland)


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